


Pushing Roses

by ProseApothecary



Category: Pushing Daisies, Schitt's Creek
Genre: But still pretty cheery?, Crossover, M/M, Morbid humour, Murder Mystery, Reunions, There's technically a Major Character Death but he comes back to life so...??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17529116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: No one asked for a Schitt's Creek/Pushing Daisies crossover, and I delivered.





	1. Chapter 1

Patrick stares at the anchor report on the body found in the woods, not certain that it’s the same David Rose until they show a picture

Fitzwilliam High’s David Rose. Family cloaked in celebrity. Keen on ponchos and art class. Very keen on his art teacher. Less keen on algebra. They’d talked to each other occasionally. Kissed once, drunkenly at a New Year’s Eve party. Before Patrick, panicked and confused, made his New Year’s resolution to cut off contact.

He’d still feel guilty about it sometimes. Until he’d read a newspaper headline about one of David’s gallery openings, or celebrity flings, or fashion lines, and realise that whatever he did or didn’t do was just a blip in David’s life.

Except that now he’s dead. And Patrick’s back to thinking about butterfly effects, and whether a kiss could get someone killed decades down the line, and feeling guilt wash over him again.

He decides to take on David’s case before he’s even aware he’s decided. Make it an apology, a redressment. A high school reunion.


	2. Chapter 2

 Patrick finds himself in the funeral parlour, standing above David’s open coffin. He carefully removes a twig from David’s lapel. David’s eyes are closed, and he manages to look a little haughty, even in death.  Somehow, the thought gives him cheer.

Patrick’s hand hovers above David’s face for a moment, before he lightly touches his cheek. David sits up, registers that he’s in a coffin, then promptly grabs Patrick’s collar and smashes his head into the coffin lid.

“Ow. Jesus. You were not this strong in high school.”

“Hot yoga,” says David automatically, before frowning in confusion. “ _Patrick_?”

Patrick backs away, rubbing his head. “I know this is a lot to take in, but what happened is-”

“Oh, I can see what happened. And I’m going to sue the shit out of whichever safety school doctor decided I was dead.”

“…Uh-huh,” says Patrick, rapidly deciding a new plan might be in order, “do you remember how…you were injured?”

David looks at Patrick. “You don’t need to know that.”

“Well,” says Patrick, a little taken aback, “it’s just, the perpetrator might be on the run…”

David raises an eyebrow. “Are you a policeman now? Well, there wasn’t a _perpetrator_. I mean if Sebastien hadn’t decided we needed 30 fucking shots of me on a tree branch, I might not be in this situation, but it’s not like he pushed me or anything.”

An accident. Patrick glances at his watch. 5 seconds left. Time for the tap.

David looks at him in puzzlement.

3 seconds.

Just a touch.

“…Patrick?”

Patrick winces as he hears a distant  _thud_. Almost certainly the funeral director.

“We should get out of here.”

“Yeah, I should probably let my family know I’m _not_ dead…Do you think a Facebook status would do?”

Patrick weighs how long it will take the ambulances to come against how long it will take to convince David of the truth. “…Here’s the thing, that negligent doctor you had, he’s-he’s not going to want you around. So maybe keep quiet on the whole being alive thing for now? I can take you to a safehouse and we can…discuss things.”

“Seriously, first I get dragged into the Cheetah Girls' blood feud, now this? Fine, lead the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

“This doesn’t _look_ like an especially safe safehouse,” says David, as Patrick leads him into The Pie Hole.

“Exactly. It’s inconspicuous.”

They go to the kitchen at the back.

David looks at the pies surrounding them with a mixture of confusion and hunger.

Patrick notices. “Apple and gruyère?” he asks, getting a plate.

“Thanks. God, how long was I out for? It feels like I haven’t eaten for days.”

Patrick sets a slice down in front of David. “Listen, David, time was not on our side back there. And I might have…omitted some information.”

David raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“…You were dead. Or are dead. Existentially, it’s hard to pinpoint, but the point is I…reanimate the inanimate.”

“…Right,” says David, looking for the nearest exit.

Patrick picks up a dead peach from his fruit basket and it brightens in his palm.

David’s eyes widen. “ _Fuck_. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Oh my God. I’m a zombie.”

“Not really. I mean, you’re not infected, you don’t have a craving for human flesh and you’re not decomposing.”

“Thank God. Because if my face was going to start turning into compost, I would buy you the shotgun myself.”

“Ok,” says Patrick, backing away slightly, “there’s no need for _shotguns_. I’d just need to touch you, and you’d be gone. Kinda hoping you want to stick around though.”

“So you have like…death fingers?”

“I’d _prefer_ to think of them as life fingers. I mean we get to help people. Find their killers, enact their last wishes.”

“So there’s other people like me? A zombie support group?”

“…Not exactly. See, if anyone stays alive for more than a minute…someone else dies.”

“So how am I alive?”

Patrick hesitates.

“Oh my God Patrick, who did you murder?”

“Can we not use the m-word? I…exchanged lives. And I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen. I thought I was just going to go in, touch you, ask how you died, touch you again and-”

“Plug the reward?”

“Find justice.”

“…So who did you kill?”

Patrick sighs. “The funeral director.”

“Right. You wouldn’t even lend me your chemistry notes in high school, but you are willing to kill a random stranger for me?”

“Really?” asks Patrick, “That’s what you’re stuck on? And put yourself in my shoes, I mean would _you_ be able to stand by and watch the death of someone you knew from school?”

“Yes.” says David, with an air of definiteness.

“…Apart from Margery Dale or Eric Stubbs?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Ok, so I’m starting to realise why you didn’t go to the high school reunions.”

“I specifically went to Tibet to avoid the last one. Which, I’m guessing, is not something I can do anymore?”

“Yeah anything involving background checks or publicity is…not ideal.”

“Like owning a gallery, for instance?”

Patrick grimaces. “…Yeah.”

“So what exactly _can_ I do?”

“Well. I mean. There must be a job where people won’t recognise you. Like something where you can wear a disguise? And there’s no background checks?”

David raises an eyebrow.

“…Or you could stay here, help out at The Pie Hole?”

“Oh great. I love cooking.”


	4. Chapter 4

 “You know, a heads up on the fact that you were being sarcastic would’ve been helpful,” says Patrick, gesturing to the snowfall of flour dusting the floor and counters.

“Ok, well no one’s ever had any trouble detecting it before.”

“You know you don’t _have_ to do this.”

“I really need a hobby. So unless you have a gallery I can curate-”

“Jesus,” says the woman who walks in, looking at the chunk of dough on the ceiling.

“Hey. Ronnie, this is David. David, this is Ronnie.”

“Fire him,” says Ronnie. She turns to David. “Trust me, you don’t want this job.”

“Oh, I know,” says David.

“Ok,” says Patrick, “well firing him isn’t really an option.”

“Why not?”

“Well. I may have-” he looks at the customers beyond the counter “-y’know. Tapped him?”

“I would ask if you give jobs to everyone you sleep with, but it explains a lot about the way this place is run.”

“No,” says Patrick, gesturing, “tap, like _tap._ We really need a code for this.”

“Hi,” says David, extending a hand to Ronnie, “I’m recently undead.”

Patrick sighs.

Ronnie stares at Patrick. “ _How_ _recently_?”

“Since yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” says Ronnie, “is this the accident victim? That you were supposed to double-tap?”

“You really do need a new code,” says David.

“We went to high school together! Apparently I find it difficult to kill people I know. Which some would consider to be a positive trait, by the way.”

“Well, generally it doesn’t result in someone else dying. Who was it?”

“Funeral director. Last night’s news said he was stealing from the patrons.” Last night’s news had also implied he was stealing the patrons, followed by a dramatic zoom on David’s empty coffin. But Ronnie didn’t need to know that.

“Ah. Deflecting guilt.”

“Ok,” says Patrick, “was there something you came in here to ask, or?”

She turns to David. “Woods-boy.”

“David.”

“David. Your parents are paying us a lot of money to find out whether you were murdered.”

“I fell. Unless murder sounds cooler. On second thought, you should definitely say I was murdered.”

Ronnie turns to Patrick. “Don’t fire him. An employee who’s willing to perjure himself is a valuable asset. Though I think in this case the truth might be best. Well. The half-truth.”

“Again,” says Patrick, “couldn’t fire him even if I wanted to.”

 

“Wow,” David says as Ronnie leaves, “is she your boss?”

“She’s a private investigator. I help out with the cases.”

“Hm. I feel like maybe she _should_ be your boss.”

“I would not survive the week.”

“One question,” says David, “when they found me, was I-”

“Shirtless and wearing a cloak? Yes. A lot of the morticians were wondering whether you were some kind of erotic magician.”

“Fantastic. So that’s my legacy now. I’m definitely going to haunt Sebastien for his costuming decisions.”

Patrick sighs. “Please don’t actually break into anyone’s house.”

“What’s the point of being legally dead if you’re not going to take full advantage of the perks?”

“Be careful, at least?”

 

David gets back from a productive night of haunting to find a sketchbook and pencils laid out on his bed.


	5. Chapter 5

“So,” David says, next morning at The Pie Hole, “some art supplies were mysteriously left on my pillow last night. Obviously I made a much better impression on Ronnie than I thought.”

Patrick smiles. “Mm. Well I think Ronnie’s sorry about the situation she put you in. And she knows some supplies aren’t the same as owning your own gallery, but-”

“It’s enough. I woke up this morning and realised I was a touch away from never waking up again. And while normally waking up isn’t my _favourite_ activity in the world… I’m glad I still have that. So thankyou. For touching me. And that is how I chose to phrase that, apparently...”

Patrick shrugs. “Anytime.” He pauses. “Well. Never again, actually. You know what I mean.”

David pauses for a moment. “I do actually have another request.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. It’s uh. It’s gonna sound kinda weird.”

“I think we’re past weird, at this point.”

“Well. I just thought that maybe later today we could uh, swing past my funeral?”

“Huh.”

“I’m not going to jump out and surprise everyone. I just feel like maybe it’d be…closure?”

“Ok. Yeah, sure we can do that. Um, you will need to change clothes.”

David looks down at his black sweater. “What, you don’t think this is funeral-appropriate?”

“Uh it’s _extremely_ funeral appropriate. It’s also extremely you. I think it’d be a little less conspicuous if you borrowed some of my clothes.”

 

“You clean up nice,” says Patrick, aiming for a tone that’s just slightly condescending.

David stares at him then looks down meaningfully at his baby blue shirt and blazer sleeves that are just a tad too small. “Everything I’ve ever worn has been superior to _this_.”

“Really? Even PJs?”

“Yes. I curate my sleepwear very carefully.”

Patrick slides a pair of sunglasses on him. “You look like the star of a Miami Vice reboot.”

“Great. Sounds super inconspicuous. Can we go now?”

 

They reach the car only to find Ronnie standing there. She points to David. “What’s he doing here?”

“We uh, thought we might spend the afternoon at David’s funeral,” Patrick says.

Ronnie stares at him. “For fun? I don’t understand youth culture.”

“I’m 30, Ronnie. And what are _you_ doing here?”                                                  

“Well, we _were_ going to go pick up the cheque for our last case.”

“Shit. I completely forgot.”

“We could go to the funeral on the way,” says David, “honestly, I’ll probably just do a couple rounds of the snack table and leave.”

Ronnie sighs. “Fine.”

 

People gather around the empty coffin while Patrick and David blend into the background of the park. Ronnie naps in the car.

David surveys the décor. “This is surprisingly nice. Although they could’ve hired a few more professional mourners.”

“Did not know that was a real thing.”

“Clearly you haven’t been to enough oil tycoons’ funerals.”

“Clearly.”

Patrick gestures towards a girl he doesn’t recognise, bawling in the front row. “Girlfriend?”

“Waitress. We’ve had 3 conversations.”

“You must have made a good impression.”

“I told her my pancakes were undercooked. 3 times.” David glances towards the other guests.

 “Huh. Even Alexis came back from her wine tour of Europe,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest.

Patrick puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh my God,” David whispers as Moira takes to the stand.

“What?”

“That’s her real hair. Fuck. That’s not good. They were supposed to be doing fine.”

“David? Do you want to go?”

 

David sits in the backseat, staring out the window as Patrick drives.

“Ronnie?” Patrick asks after a couple of seconds, “can you hug David for me?”

David huffs a soft, surprised laugh.

Ronnie stares at Patrick. “There are two people in this world that I respect enough to hug. My wife and my daughter. You want me to add ‘guy I just met’ to that list?”

“Trust me, we’re on the same page,” says David. 

“I’ll give you a week’s supply of gruyere and apple pie. You know Katie loves it.”

“…Fine,” says Ronnie, pulling David into a hug and giving him a few awkward pats on the back.

“Ooh,” says David, sniffing her hair, “is that lemon verbena?”

“Ok,” says Ronnie, pulling back, “this is why I‘m not a hugger.”

“Sorry,” says David, “I just can’t believe we use the same shampoo. It’s making me question my life choices a little bit.”

Ronnie looks at Patrick. “I think he’s going to be fine.”

Patrick makes a sound between a cough and a laugh.

 

They stop outside an apartment block. Patrick and Ronnie leave for 5 minutes and Ronnie is significantly cheerier upon return. “Ten thousand, just for proving that her electric eel never hurt a fly. We are only taking rich, eccentric clients from now on.”

David sits up. “You know, I could help out with these cases.”

“Do you actually have any skills that could actually help solve murders?” Ronnie asks.

David thinks for a moment. “I can identify stiletto wounds. I know exactly how many Quaaludes it takes to knock someone out. I uncovered a whole network of secret mistresses through social media analysis. And that’s all from one Teen Choice Awards after party.”

Ronnie shrugs. “Can’t hurt to bring him along.”

“…And you’re fine with seeing dead bodies?” Patrick asks, unconvinced.

“Uh, no, I find the whole concept repulsive. But I can’t spend another day trapped in the Pie Hole, surrounded by dozens of pies that I’m not allowed to eat, without losing my mind, so-”

“Fine,” says Ronnie, “We’re looking into a new case tomorrow. Just put on some sunglasses so you don’t get recognised. And don’t puke on the evidence.”


	6. Chapter 6

Ronnie looks at David, dressed exactly like David, plus a pair of sunglasses.

She looks at Patrick. “You didn’t want to lend him some less distinctive clothing?”

“Once was too many times,” says David.

“You got lucky,” says Patrick, “this guy’s not too morbid.”

“He’s _green_.”

Ronnie glances at David. “So are you. Pot, kettle…green.”

“At _most_ he looks slightly minty.” Patrick insists. He sniffs. “Kinda smells like it too.”

“…Me or the corpse?” asks David, concerned.

“The corpse,” says Patrick, “you’re definitely green.”

“You know how much I love spending valuable working hours on banter. Just remember, when you get around to waking him up, maybe refer to him as ‘Brian’, rather than ‘the corpse’.” Ronnie offers.

“Have we got anything to go on apart from his name?”

 “He was a 40 year-old salesman at Ebeneezer’s Everything-Mart.”

David shudders involuntarily.

“Are you ok?” asks Patrick. “Do you want to wait outside the morgue, away from the dead body? Trust me, it doesn’t get any better when it starts talking.”

“Oh no, it’s not that. It’s just, I’ve been in Ebeneezer’s Everything Mart. Once. On a dare. There’s fireworks in the middle of the store, next to the _throw rugs_ , of all things. It’s a mess.”

Patrick grins at him.

Ronnie ignores them. “He’s the boyfriend to a cashier there. Was poisoned sometime during the day, went home, and dropped dead. Probably wasn’t expecting it, because first responders tell me there was enough chilli to last a week in the fridge. Such a waste.”

“…Does she mean the chilli?” David whispers to Patrick.

“Probably.” He prepares to touch the victim. “You ready?”

“Yes.” says Ronnie, “I’ve been ready for the last 10 minutes.”

David takes a step back and nods.

 

Patrick touches Brian’s arm and he sits up suddenly, clutching his stomach. “Do you have any Pepto-Bismol?”

“Not sure if that’s gonna help,” says Patrick “you were poisoned.”

“With what? I skipped breakfast, and there was so much unpacking to do that management didn’t even let me take a lunch break. I’ve been working all day.”

Patrick’s planned interrogation unravels a bit.

David takes advantage of the momentary silence. “Where did you get your shoes?”

“They’re Chanel. A present from Marlene. Honestly, take them if you want. It’s not like I’m gonna have much use for them.”

“Oh God. That’s ok, really. I’ll just…buy them.”

“Ten seconds,” says an irritated Ronnie.

“Any idea who’d want you dead?” Patrick asks hurriedly.

“Oh yeah,” says Brian, unzipping a compartment in the lining of his coat. “My keys,” he says, holding them out to Patrick, “everything you need to know should be there.”

Patrick glances at his watch then grabs the keys, touching Brian in the process.

There’s a moment of silence before David opens his mouth.

“Do I look like the type of person who would wear a dead man’s shoes?”

“Does it make a difference?” asks Ronnie, “If you’d taken them a second ago they would’ve been a living man’s shoes.”

“I’m…concerned by the fact that that makes sense to me. We need to get out of here.”

“I say we head to Ebeneezer’s and ask his girlfriend where he lived.” Patrick suggests.

 

“Seriously?” asks Patrick as David hesitates outside the store, “you endured a morgue today.”

“Morgue inhabitants are quiet. And orderly.”

“Leave him,” says Ronnie, entering the store.

Patrick looks back at David and follows.

David looks up at the red neon signage, sighs deeply, and follows them.

Patrick grabs him and pulls him forward before a child on a skateboard can run into him.

“See?” hisses David, “This place is barbaric.”

“At least they moved the throw rugs,” says Patrick, motioning to a display, “now they’re next to the Crocs.”

David looks over to where a woman is sorting Crocs while gently weeping.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, “that’s the most tragic tableau I’ve ever seen.”

Hi,” says Ronnie, walking over to her, “Marlene?”

She turns around and plasters a bright smile on her face. “Hi, how can I help you? Ebeneezer’s always pleases.”

“It’s Ronnie. We’re here to talk about Brian.”

“Oh! Thank you for answering my call. Where are you at with the investigation? Do you need any more information?”

“Do you remember Brian eating anything on the day of his death?”

She pauses. “Well, he was working in the store all day. And he was never really one for packed lunches.”

“Do you have his address?”

“33 Argyle Lane. I don’t have the key, sorry. We weren’t really at that stage…”

“That’s ok.”

She looks bashful. “If he…said anything about me, you know, in a diary or…or anything…could you let me know?”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Well, we already know he loved the shoes you bought him,” says David, “wouldn’t part with them.”

“Oh!” she says happily, then lowers her voice as if sharing a secret, “you know I got them from a second-hand shop. The workers didn’t realise they were designer.”

“You have a good eye,” says David, “have you ever thought about styling something other than Crocs?”

Marlene holds a hand to her heart. “You really think I could?”

“I do. And I don’t say that lightly.”

“Maybe I’ll go back and get my diploma. If I make it, you’ll be my first client! On the house.”

David looks down at his own outfit, frowning slightly. “I like to think I’m my own stylist. But, uh, thanks?”

They say their goodbyes and make their way out of the store, Patrick smiling at David intermittently.

“What?” asks David bluntly.

“That was nice. What you said to her.”

“I wasn’t being nice. There are just limited reserves of taste left in the world, and I have a vested interest in making sure it’s being funnelled into something more worthwhile than Croc displays.”

“Right,” says Patrick, unconvinced.

“Seriously. Don’t go around telling people I’m nice.”

“…You’re dead. Does your reputation really still matter?”

“Uh, it matters all the more, because now I can’t _change_ it.”

“Fine,” says Patrick, “David Rose, coldest man I ever knew. Spent his schooldays extorting money from the pre-schoolers next door.”

David rolls his eyes. “Great, thanks.”

“Although,” he adds, “there was this _one_ time-”

“No.”

“-when his sister was crying over a breakup, and he managed to distract the whole class. By turning his mandatory five minute Shakespearean monologue into a half-hour treatise on fast fashion.”

“Clearly, your memories of high school are getting hazy.”

“Oh no, I remember it pretty distinctly. It was the first time I realised how much Hamlet actually had to say about pleather.”

“…Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a therapist who’s willing to _help_ you repress memories? There’s years of work down the drain.”

“Sorry,” says Patrick. He doesn’t look very sorry.

They hear Ronnie’s voice from outside. “Today would be good.”

Patrick’s hand thumps against David’s back. “You coming, bad boy? Or is being punctual too polite?”

David makes a face and follows Patrick to the car.


	7. Chapter 7

“Not a _lot_ of places to look for clues,” says David, standing in the middle of Brian’s stark house.

“I’ll check the computer,” says Patrick, going into the study.

David wanders aimlessly around, until he reaches the living room window, and frowns.

 “This place has been broken into.”

“Looks pretty tidy to me,” says Ronnie.

David rolls his eyes. “You sound like Alexis. Look, there’s a few smudges of dirt here. Near the flowerpot on the windowsill. Not likely to get knocked over that way unless someone’s coming in from the outside. Any evidence has probably been pilfered already.”

“…Maybe,” says Ronnie heading toward the fridge. “Unless he suspected someone was on his tail, and hid it _creatively_.”

She opens the refrigerator door and takes out a huge saucepan.

David makes a face. “I think we have very different definitions of creativity.”

“This is a lot of chilli for someone living alone,” says Ronnie.

“Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

Ronnie holds the pan out. “Do you want to do the honours?”

“I’d rather die. Again.”

Ronnie puts the pan on the counter and starts rolling up her sleeves.

 

Patrick walks in to see Ronnie, arms clad in chilli, triumphantly holding up a dripping Ziploc bag.

“…You couldn’t just have used a colander?”

David turns to Ronnie. “I don’t know what that is, but if it’s a tool that could’ve made this situation less traumatising for me, and you just _forgot_ about it’s existence, I’m going to resent you. For a while.”

“I didn’t forget,” says Ronnie. “We just didn’t have time for wasting time.”

“Oh my God.”

Ronnie peels open the bag. “Anyone interested in the windfall of evidence I found? No, nobody?”

Patrick peers over. “Looks like a USB.”

“You take it,” says Ronnie, “I don’t wanna get mince all over it.”

Patrick takes the USB and they head back to the study.

 

Patrick opens every file, and a cavalcade of documentation on Ebeneezer’s tax evasion and labour law violations opens up.

“I _knew_ there was no way a store with that level of organisational mayhem was doing well on its own merits,” says David.

“Ok,” says Ronnie, “Time to tell Marlene she’s working for her boyfriend’s murderers. Sorting Crocs. For minimum wage. I don’t think I should be covered in mince for this conversation.”

Patrick follows Ronnie to the bathroom. “Mints. That’s what Brian smelled like.”

“This is a _very_ distinct smell,” says David, “I think I would’ve remembered it.”

“No, he smelled minty. I assumed it was his shampoo or something, but if they got poison into his system without him eating anything, it was probably-”

“Toothpaste.” Ronnie finishes, looking at the tube on the counter. “So the break-in was before his death. They knew when he’d be at work. Looked for the information, and when they didn’t find it, settled for poisoning something they knew he’d use everyday.”

“Is this the part where we get this back to the lab…?” asks David.

“We don’t have a lab,” says Ronnie. “This is the part where we tell Marlene, and call the police with a tip. After getting the reward.”

“How do we split the reward?” David asks.

Ronnie looks at David. “50/50. Between the people who have an agreement.”

“C’mon,” says Patrick, “he deserves a third.”

Ronnie rolls her eyes. “Fine. Consider it an advance on the next case.”

“…You want me round for the next one?”

“Want is a relative term. But it seems like there’s a head on top of that fancy sweater.”

“Thank you.” says David, “…Although I don’t know if I’d call it a ‘fancy’ sweater, per se. I got it while I was doing a photoshoot in the Alps. The funny thing is, what I meant to buy was yak’s milk, but my Slovenian isn’t great. Long story short, I _did_ almost starve to death but I _didn’t_ get pneumonia-“

“Please, keep telling this long and convoluted story while murderers run free,“ says Ronnie, walking out.

“Aw,” says Patrick, nudging David, “she’s starting to like you!”

David stares after them both.


	8. Chapter 8

They celebrate the evening after.

“Here’s to Marlene leaving Ebeneezer’s to get her diploma,” says Patrick.

“Here’s to us being excellent detectives,” says David.

“Here’s to cash rewards,” says Ronnie.

They clink glasses. Ronnie downs hers in one.

“I should get back to Katie. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Patrick and David finish their glasses shortly afterwards.

“I should really tidy up,” Patrick says, standing and motioning to the pie-stacked tables surrounding them.

“I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

David shrugs. “It’s not like anyone’s waiting up for me.” He helps Patrick take stacks of plates to the kitchen.

Patrick struggles to say something he’d been thinking for the past few days. “…You should tell your family.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You’re right, your secret would definitely get out. My mother contacted several media empires when she switched from synthetic to real wigs. I can only imagine how many people she’d tell about a local zombie reanimator.”

Patrick shrugs. “Anything to boost my Instagram followers.”

“I guarantee that posting a few pictures of pie will do the job.”

“Seriously, I’ll figure something out. You should be happy.”

“I think I am,” he says quietly.

Patrick tries very hard not to read anything into that. “Then come back. After. There’ll always be a place for you here.”

David’s mouth twitches. “Hm. Just not _here_.” He lays a finger on the kitchen counter.

“Definitely not. I think that might be worse for business than any kind of zombie-related revelations.”

 

David glides into the kitchen a few days later as if no time has passed.

Patrick looks up from the counter and smiles at him. “How’d it go?”

“I’ve developed a system,” he says proudly. “For every month that my mother does not call a press conference, she gets to hear one more detail of what happened. Though you’re going to have to create a little more scandal or I’m going to run out of facts.”

“I’m in the middle of baking a cherry pie with coriander in it, so scandal awaits.”

“Cherry pie, huh? You made that for-” he pauses, “-in high school.”

“For the New Year’s Eve party,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “Did not think it was that memorable a pie.”

“Well, I have a photographic memory for food.” He hesitates. “And it was a pretty memorable night.”

Patrick looks at him searchingly. “Definitely.”

David wavers until his curiosity gets the better of his discomfort. “At the time I thought maybe I’d put you off…cherry pie.”

“Oh. _Oh_. No, um. I’d say the opposite. Had a lot of, um, practice making it since then.” He takes a breath and barrels right through. “Sour cherry’s still my favourite though.”

David’s face flutters between flattered and insulted. He seems to settle on flattered.

“…See, my thing is wine. Doesn’t matter which kind. And that year was uh…a good vintage.”

Patrick grins but gives him a sceptical look. “ _You_ drink wine from the 2000s?”

“Used to. Can’t touch it anymore, so…”

“You know, hypothetically, there are ways - not direct ways, but um. Alternatives. To enjoying a glass of wine.”

David looks at him. “Oh, so you’ve _thought_ about this.”

Patrick’s cheeks pinken. “Maybe a little. And I understand, if you don’t want to. We can just forget I mentioned anything…” He trails off as David starts looking distractedly at the cling wrap on the counter.

He tries to tear off a sheet and ends up with a tangled mess. “How do you use this fucking thing?”

Patrick bites his cheek to stop himself from laughing and goes over to help. David holds the top and bottom while Patrick pulls the sides free.

Patrick gives him an affectionate smile through the diaphanous window between them. “It’s a chef’s skill. Takes years to master-”

David drops one hand to tug at his shirt, pulling him into a plastic-wrapped peck

“Huh,” says David, pulling back. “Better than the New Year’s one. Even with cling wrap.”

The pink crawls back up Patrick’s neck. “Cling wrap is not the only thing that takes years to master.”

“I’d say it’s mastered. But if you want a little more practice, I would be very willing to ascribe homework.”

“So generous.”

David grins at him before sniffing the air. “I smell burning cherries. And that’s not a metaphor.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “Shit.” He puts on mitts and pulls a slightly browned pie from the oven.

“Ok,” says David, “so either you’re not a professional cook, _or_ I’m such a professional kisser that I made you forget all your skills.”

“Sounds like both of those could be bad for business.” Patrick removes the burnt bits and cuts the pie into slices, handing one to David and taking one for himself.

David eyes his slice thoughtfully. “On the plus side, Burnt Sour Cherry Pie could make a good title for my memoirs.”

Patrick takes a bite. “In that case, I think I’m a fan.”

David stuffs his slice in his mouth to hide a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone reading who hasn't watched Pushing Daisies, this is the chapter inspiration :) http://images2.fanpop.com/images/polls/152000/152838_1229105244291_full.jpg?v=1229105245


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